My Diary: Voices in Boxes All Tied Up With Typeface

I had an early trip to the small country‭ (‬it gets smaller as I get bigger although I know at some point the reverse will be true‭)‬.‭ ‬I checked my phone before entering the house and saw the old man holding‭ ‬an empty bottle‭ ‬-‭ ‬neither of us had any messages.‭ ‬We talked softly about the bars we saw the world through before I went out and scattered old pictures on the recently dug ground:‭ ‬once covered with soil new images will issue forth.‭ ‬I consoled myself with this thought as the red bus alligator jaws snapped shut and the blind guitarist by the road side checked his cap for coins.‭ ‬I said hello to people I often think I know on the long journey home‭; ‬measuring the radius of the big pond by the crossroads with my index finger and thumb as the probable descendants of Iron Age hill farmers walked by.

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